


it's a slow burn, and i dance in the flames with you

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Gary Neville doesn't like Jamie Carragher, but he does have to work with him. That's fine. Until it stops being fine. He didn't run towards Valencia so much as he ran away from something else. But things catch up to you, in the end. It's always the slow burns that hurt the most.





	1. Chapter 1

_He’s handsomer now than when he was playing_ , Gary Neville thought of his Monday Night Football co-host, before efficiently shutting down that line of thought.  
  
It refused to be shut down, however, and cropped up again at the most inconvenient times.  
  
_The grey at his temples makes him look distinguished, rather than old_ , he thought as they were discussing the importance of Aaron Ramsey for Arsenal’s midfield. He forced himself to think about Ramsey instead. He wasn’t nearly as talented as Wenger made him out to be.  
  
_He has nice broad shoulders… strong_ , he thought as they discussed Liverpool’s attacking options. He wrenched his gaze away from his colleague ( _that’s all he is, Neville, a **colleague** ,_ an internal voice sounding like a certain short ginger piped up), forcing himself to look Jamie in the eyes.  
  
_Jamie’s eyes are quite…interesting. Are they green or grey? Maybe somewhere in the middle? I can’t quite tell._ Gary came back to himself when Jamie quirked an eyebrow, voice laced with humor.  
  
“’Ave I got something on me face, then, Gaz?”  
  
Gary didn’t get it. Why would he have something…? _Right._ Because Gary Neville doesn’t just stare at Jamie Carragher for no reason.  
  
(You know, except at some point he kinda _starts_ , and it becomes his new normal, and he kinda hates himself for it.)  
  
“Yeah, just there,” Gary said, gesturing towards the corner of his own eye. Jamie swiped at the spot, looking at him questioningly. Gary nodded.  
  
“Got it,” he confirmed. Jamie smiled at him, and his heart kind of squeezed in his chest.  
  
It didn’t just do that for every handsome bugger he saw—he’d worked with Redknapp and Henry for _years_ , after all, and this was the first time…  
  
Oh _fuck_.  
  
It doesn’t stop, either.  
  
_The lines in his face get deeper when he smiles, and it’s unfairly attractive_ , Gary thought in the pub, as they discussed…  
  
Actually, he had no idea what they were discussing. He bit back the instinct to disagree with whatever Jamie said, and instead let him prattle on a bit in that damnably adorable accent, ( _oh god, was he in deep or what? Scouse accents were **not** adorable. They weren’t. They were atrocious and awful and he hated them. Only… he didn’t, anymore. How terribly strange.)_ so he could figure out what the hell they were talking about, and what Jamie’s opinion was, which would then determine what Gary’s opinion would be.  
  
It was Gary’s secret that sometimes he disagreed with Jamie, just to see his eyes ( _somewhere between green and grey,_ he had decided, and rather prettier than the description suggested) light up, anticipating the challenge that would inevitably follow.  
  
They grew closer over the next months they spent working together. Gary’s jokes got softer and kinder, and he stopped mentioning Liverpool’s 2013/14 title challenge—he didn’t like the shadow that came across Jamie’s eyes, or the way he started looking distant, as if staring into the past, into the dream that he had wanted so badly but never achieved. It felt wrong, especially because Gary got to have that dream, eight times.  
  
Gary knew he was fucked when he realized that he’d give Jamie one of them if he could ( _not more than that, though—he’d become insufferable, the stupid handsome twat, and he still had to prove that United were the better club, after all_ ), just to see his Carra’s eyes shine with pure, unadulterated happiness.  
  
When had he become _his_ Carra anyway?  
  
Maybe it had been when he’d woken up in the middle of the night, fresh off a dream in which Jamie’d played for United instead of Liverpool, that that famous kiss of his had been with Carra instead of Scholesy. Usually, Gary didn’t remember his dreams. He couldn’t forget this one. Each time he laid in bed and closed his eyes, the image flashed before him again—Jamie’s face looming larger as they got closer, the redness of his mouth, flashbulbs going off in the distance, the absent thought that this would be all over the papers, but not giving a flying fuck… He woke just before he could feel Jamie’s lips. The nearness of it almost drove him mad.  
  
Or maybe Jamie had become his when Gary started feeling the subtle burn of jealousy in the pit of his stomach whenever Jamie mentioned Steven Gerrard, voice soft with affection, adoring and respectful.  
  
_Gerrard wasn’t all that, anyway. Nothing next to Scholesy._  
  
Gary went ahead and said that, and Jamie’s eyes flashed with genuine anger, because there was no way in hell he was going to let Gary insult his Captain. Jamie wasn’t by nature a violent man. He was all wit, all banter, even if you insulted him. Only two things truly angered him—attacks on his family, and attacks on his captain. It wasn’t a coincidence that his most reckless tackles tended to land on players who had taken his captain down a little too cynically for his taste. He’d always been protective of the man. Gary should have known better, really.  
  
And now? It was the most serious argument they’d had in months. This wasn’t a simple case of bickering over who’d been the better player. He’d said that Gerrard was _nothing,_ and as soon as the words fired into the air, Gary knew there was no way Jamie would let that pass, not if he had breath in his body.  
  
Because to Jamie, Stevie had been everything. His accent thickened as he spoke, and his lips didn’t quirk at the corners, like they did when he was disagreeing just to tease. His face was set, like stone, like some statue of a Greek hero engaged in battle. (Gary wondered where the fuck all these metaphors were coming from, because he’d never been like _this_ before.)  
  
And the worst part? Gary was a rational guy—he was perfectly aware that it made absolutely no sense for him to resent Steven the way he did. It would be like Jamie being jealous of Phil ( _only not quite like that. Not at all. He wished it was like that. But it wasn’t, really_. ) or David ( _but no, that was a bad example if ever there was one. He’d been young then, with fire in his veins and on his lips, and it had been_ David _. No, he rather hoped it was nothing like what he and David had been, once)._  
  
Gary actually used to _like_ Stevie, insofar as he liked anyone who played for Liverpool. He’d been a nice enough lad when they were together in the national team—quiet, respectful, kept his head down. And perhaps more importantly, he was madly in love with his wife, with whom he had three perfect little girls. Besides, he wasn’t even in England anymore. He was playing in _America_ , for fuck’s sake. Whatever he and Jamie had once shared, all they had now were phone calls and text messages.  
  
But still, it did make Gary sad that he and Jamie would never have what Jamie and Stevie had, would never have the years and years of inside jokes, the gentle banter, the intimate, almost telepathic understanding that came from decades of sharing the same heavy burden, the unconditional love that came from sharing a career, sharing a _life_.  
  
Gary knew it didn’t make sense. He knew it. But he still hated Steven Gerrard a little bit, for having what he would never have.  
  
Still, he and Jamie grew closer over the next weeks and months. Eventually Jamie came to the colossal realization that they could save several hours of studio work by just watching matches together and talking about them, in the comfort of their own homes.  
  
(They wouldn’t have to wear suits, either, Jamie remarked happily. Jamie wasn’t very comfortable in suits, Gary had noted, always fiddling with the collar of his shirt. Even when the camera was rolling, his fingers would twitch in an aborted movement to open a button, and he would swallow, and Gary would watch the line of his throat, and then he’d look away.)  
  
_(Look away, look away, look away.)_  
  
So, Jamie and Gary watched matches together every week. It wasn’t that big a deal. Honestly. Just a couple of guys getting together and watching some football. There was nothing in it. Really.  
  
Just a Manchester United legend and a Liverpool legend sitting on the sofa, arguing over everything from the color of the curtains to whether that was a penalty or not to whether Arsenal looked to shed its reputation as perpetual runner-up anytime soon. They never _shouted_ , per se, and whenever they got near, Jamie would just look at Gary askance.  
  
“Calm down, Gary,” he’d say, in that _voice_ of his (and that voice definitely did not _do things_ to Gary. It definitely did _not_.), reminding them both of that FIFA commercial they’d done awhile back. And that was always enough to break the tension, fits of giggles inevitably following.  
  
It wouldn’t have taken a genius to note that as time went on, the gap between them on the sofa slowly shrank. By the time Jamie had been on for a year and a half, there was barely an inch left separating Liverpool legend from Manchester United hero. That last inch, though, was stubborn, unconquerable, the difference between feeling the warmth radiating from the other person, and the surprising softness of their skin. Gary looked down at that inch now and then, at the space between his thigh and Jamie’s, and wished he could cross it.  
  
So when Jamie texted him, asking him to come to his place for the match this week, Gary didn’t think, just texted back his agreement as fast as he could. He didn’t wonder until afterwards whether he responded just a little bit _too_ quickly, whether he came off as eager. He shut down that line of thought—it wasn’t going to do any good, and he wasn’t twelve years old anymore.  
  
Besides, he just happened to have his phone at hand, so of course he responded quickly.

(It was actually across the room, and he had actually vaulted over the sofa with the agility of a much younger man when he’d heard Jamie’s ring. Yes, Jamie had his own personalized text tone. No, Jamie didn’t know that. He never would, if Gary had his way.)  
  
It was only polite not to keep people waiting.

(So what if he still had a text from Phil that he hasn’t responded to? Yes, he got it three days ago. So what?)  
  
He got to Jamie’s place, rather smaller than he can afford, but smartly decorated and quite comfortable. Jamie invited him in, and he waited in the living room for Jamie to finish puttering around the kitchen for their snacks (almonds for Jamie, and Starbursts for Gary. What’s the point of retirement if you can’t eat a few fucking Starbursts?)  
  
Anyway, Jamie was puttering (and Gary couldn’t be in the kitchen while Jamie putters because then his tummy got warm and jumpy and he started thinking about things that he shouldn’t be thinking about because they were _never going to happen_ and he couldn’t seem to get that through his thick skull--), and Gary was waiting in the living room.

Gary used the opportunity to look at Jamie’s bookshelves, surprisingly full. He looked around, to see if Jamie was nearby (he wasn't), and listened hard for the sound of movement in the kitchen (it stayed there). And so quietly, sneakily, making sure he wasn’t seen, he pulled Steven Gerrard’s autobiography from the shelf, and opened it.

  
The enemy you know and all that. (He wondered if Gerrard knew they were enemies, in a different way than before. _Ah well, doesn't matter either way_ , he figured.)  
  
He skipped to the pictures, because he simply didn’t have enough time or patience to read about Gerrard’s childhood and every single teammate he’d had along the way, when Gary only cared about one.  
There were pictures of Stevie’s kids, three girls ( _and they_ are _properly adorable,_ he admitted begrudgingly, because he was bitter, not blind. _probably get their looks from their mother.)._ There were pictures with coaches and teammates.  
  
There’s one picture of Gerrard with his arm around Jamie. They’re holding the Champions League trophy together. The caption reads “Team-mates and Soul-Mates.”  
  
Soul-mates?  
  
Soul-mates.  
  
_Soul-mates._  
  
God, how the fuck could Gary Neville compete with Jamie’s fucking _soul-mate_? Every horrible fear he’d ever had at night that Jamie wouldn't want him, that even if they tried, it wouldn’t work, that they’d never _understand_ each other, came surging up to the forefront of his mind.  
  
There was one single moment of realization so sharp it cut at his insides.  
  
_It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really. No matter how much time he spent, how much he gave, how much he lo—tried, he’d never have with Jamie what Jamie had with Steven fucking Gerrard_.  
  
There was no oxygen in his lungs, no air to be had in the whole of the room. Gary was pretty sure this was it. He must be dying. He placed the book back onto the shelf, almost unnaturally gently. Still, the corner of the cover wrinkled, and he felt a small secret pleasure at having ruined perfection. His hand hovered near the book, not quite steady, his littlest finger trembling just slightly.  
  
And then the moment passed.  
  
He took a deep breath, blinked hard two or three times, and tried to swallow. But there was a lump in his throat.  
  
Jamie, with his stupid perfect timing, chose this moment to walk into the room, carefully holding a mug of tea and a bag of Starbursts. Gary was pale, and he looked terrible, like he’d just had some awful, shocking news.  
  
He took one look at him and put down the food so he could grab Gary instead, one hand on his arm and the other arm round his back. He guided him to the sofa, easing him down.  
  
“Glass of water?” He asked, trying to find something to do to make this better.  
  
Gary shakes his head.  
  
“Cuppa tea?,” he asked, gesturing at the table where the mug sat, steadily steaming.  
  
Gary shook his head morosely.  
  
“Stronger,” He croaked.  
  
If Jamie had been worried before, he was borderline panicking now. But he didn’t show it, pulling on years of experience as vice-captain to school his features and look calm. He’d dealt with worse things than this before, he reminded himself. (Bloody noses, _Champions League finals_ , for fuck’s sake, and broken hearts, too—his own, the whole team’s, hell, even Stevie’s, and fuck if that hadn’t been a hard day.) He could handle this, too, he told himself.  
  
His heart still gave a heavy, uncertain leap that had never happened before. Yeah, he’d dealt with shit before, but this was _Gary_. It was uncharted territory, trying to deal with Gary shaken like this. And fuck if he didn’t find himself rather _fond_ of Gary these days.  
  
He went into the kitchen, returning moments later with one tumbler that contained rather more than one drink’s worth of that expensive scotch he’d gotten as a gift all those months ago, when he’d first signed for Sky. (He’d thought then that whoever’d sent it to him didn’t know him too well. He didn’t actually _drink_ scotch. He was more a beer man, really.)  
  
Gary took a large gulp. It was warm and sharp. ( _just like Jamie,_ he thought woefully, and oh my _god_ , when had he turned into a love-struck thirteen-year-old?)  
  
“What’s wrong, Gary?” Jamie asks, voice soft and concerned.  
  
Gary Neville was a tough old bastard. He could take almost anything, any criticism, any fights or arguments or harsh words. He’d learned how to take harsh treatment early, and years of playing for Manchester United only made him tougher. Gary had played in the cauldron of Anfield over a dozen times. Gary could take anything.  
  
Except kindness. It had always been sympathy that made him break down. His mum’s arms warm around him as he wept over a loss when he was six. Scholesy, when on those rare occasions he’d ditched the sarcasm and just _been there_. David’s arms around him in the dressing room, when they’d learned the hard way that they couldn’t win every single final.  
  
(Tracey’d had a theory about that, about safety and security and vulnerability. She’d tried to talk to him about it at a family dinner when he was in his mid-twenties.  
  
He’d brushed her off with the carelessness of an older brother who knew best and gone home to his own place, to sleep alone in a cold bed in an empty flat.)  
  
He looked at Jamie, kneeling before him now, one hand on his shoulder (he felt the warmth of that hand through his shirt, and it was like the rest of his body didn’t exist, like _he_ didn’t exist except where Jamie was touching him).  
  
He wanted to tell him everything, wanted to open his mouth and say _I love you, and I’m pretty sure you love Stevie. Also I think I’m dying, but I dunno. I haven’t felt this way before, ever, and **I love you** and you don’t love me and I’m definitely dying, I **must** be_.  
  
He opened his mouth.  
  
“I’m going to Valencia,” he said, rather to his own surprise. He had planned to reject that job offer, actually. It would be great for his career, but he liked doing telly. He _really, really_ liked doing telly. You could even say he _loved_ doing telly, though it was probably early days for throwing around the L-word. And there would be no _telly_ in Spain, after all. (though maybe he could bring his _telly_ with him? But no, his telly had his own job, so that probably wouldn’t work…).  
  
Jamie looked confused.  
  
“For holiday?”  
“To manage. They offered me the job. I’m going to manage their side for the year until they find someone else or decide to keep me on.”  
  
Jamie was silent. His mouth had fallen open, into a perfect O. Gary tried not to stare at his lips, full and perfect. He tried not to have any thoughts that would get him in trouble, because this was _so_ not the time. He failed and forced himself to look away.  
  
Jamie pulled his hand away from Gary’s shoulder. _No, stay! Please!_ Gary mentally begged him.  
  
He rose slowly, like a man whose knees creaked and ached. He stood in front of Gary for a moment.  
  
(and Gary could imagine how this _should_ go, in the romantic comedy version of his life, could imagine leaning forward and resting his cheek against Jamie’s stomach, still flat and still strong. He could imagine wrapping his arms around Jamie’s waist and drawing him in close. He could imagine Jamie’s hand coming down and resting in his hair, heavy but gentle, sinking until it cupped the back of his neck.)  
  
All Gary did was imagine, though, and so Jamie took two crisp steps to the side, turned around with the neat precision of a soldier, and took a seat next to Gary on the sofa.  
  
It was further apart than the last time they’d sat on this sofa, when they’d both been a little buzzed from the beers they’d had while watching Chelsea thrash West Ham. Gary remembered feeling the warmth radiating off of Jamie’s skin from across the inch the separated them.  
  
He couldn’t feel Jamie’s warmth now. He might as well have been on another planet. ( _In another country_.)  
  
“Congratulations, Gaz,” Jamie croaked, “that’s great.”  
  
Gary didn’t say anything, but the more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. It would be a tough introduction to management, to be sure, a foreign club in a foreign land. It’d be easier to start in England, some club in League One or the Championship. But then again, Gary’d never liked doing things the easy way.  
  
It would be great for his career, he’d understand the game better, and Phil would be there (Phil always made everything better. He made a mental note to respond to that text sharpish). It might be nice to get away for awhile anyway. A little time and space was always helpful in getting over a crush (which was all this was, really. _A silly little crush, that’s all_. It was not a good sign that even his subconscious was unconvinced.).  
  
“Just when I was figuring out how to deal with your ugly mug, too. You really do have the worst timing,” Jamie said with a halfhearted chuckle.  
  
Did that mean…? Would Jamie actually _miss_ him?  
  
“When do you go?”  
  
“What, can’t wait to be rid of me?” Gary tried to joke, only to realize as soon as he opened his stupid mouth that it was _way_ too soon.  
  
Jamie looked a little taken aback. _Yep, definitely way too soon_. Gary wished he could travel back in time and tell himself-from-two-minutes-ago to shut up and never speak again. Ever.  
  
He cleared his throat and hoped they could just ignore that he was the worst person ever, and oh god, all he could do was hope Carra had a secret fetish for men who constantly put their foot in their mouths and general awkwardness.  
  
“I don’t know exactly when, but soon. Personal terms is all that’s left of the contract, and that won’t take long. I’m no Raheem Sterling, after all.” He chuckled weakly, and Carra forced a smile, probably to make him feel like less of an idiot.  
  
“No, he was better with the ball at his feet at seventeen than you ever were.” Jamie said, no heat or challenge to his voice. He was just talking because that’s what they did. What else was there to do, really?  
  
They watched the match together, though the usual jokes were half-hearted, and almost always initiated by Gary. Jamie was quiet. Gary wished he could do something. _You can! You can just tell him you’ve changed your mind, and you’re not going!_ a part of him screamed. He ignored it. If there was one thing Gary Neville was good at, it was sticking to his decisions, and even if this one was a bit more slip-of-the-tongue, seat-of-the-pants than his usual, he’d stick to it nonetheless.  
  
Gary went home and texted Phil. _I’m taking the job_.  
  
The response came back right away, causing a surge of guilt to pool in Gary’s stomach, _About fucking time, you wanker_.  
  
He texted back. _Love you too, brother dearest. :*_  
  
Phil sent back a smiley face. Maybe this _was_ the right thing to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gary goes to Valencia. Jamie calls him every Friday, just to talk.

It was a Saturday when Gary Neville boarded a plane to Valencia, clutching his one-way ticket.  
  
Jamie Carragher was, ironically enough, at Old Trafford, covering a Manchester United match and definitely not thinking of his friend (but they weren’t _friends_ , exactly, not in the way he was friends with Stevie and former teammates and his childhood mates), colleague (but they weren’t anymore, were they?), ex-colleague (but _ex_ sounded so harsh…) _former_ colleague (and that rankled too, somehow, but it was true, and so Jamie left it).  
  
Manchester United lost, and Jamie felt a small, secret pleasure in his stomach, which, judging by the way Redders had grinned at him, was perhaps not quite so secret after all. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, in the place where superstitions lingered despite his best intentions, he hoped that the loss wouldn’t be a bad omen for Gary’s managerial career.  
  
As it turned out, the match might not have been an omen, per se, but it certainly was a fitting analogy. Goal after goal conceded, tactical changes all for naught, the players lackluster and desolate and completely helpless in the face of a team that was, on paper, of a much inferior quality. On the touchline, Ryan Giggs looked desolate. Jamie felt much the same, despite himself.  
  
\---  
  
“Punditry is just like playing football, Carra. Until it isn’t.” Redders had said to Jamie on his first day. He’d been lingering on set, to offer some support. Gary had been surprisingly polite, though it was less surprising when he glanced past the camera and saw the older Jamie casting warning glances and death glares whenever Gary’s banter got a bit too sharp. For a man who was so ridiculously pretty, he could look rather threatening when he wanted to.  
  
Gary, on his part, remembered how Jamie Redknapp had protected his younger teammates, on the pitch, in the national team training camp, in the media, with a surprising fierceness that was very much at odds with the joker on _A League of Their Own_. And Stevie and Carra had always been his favorites. _Old habits die hard_ , he figured, tamping down the instinctive dislike of the man sitting across from him.  
  
Anyway, to return to the point, Redders hadn’t really elaborated much on his words. But after about a month of doing MNF, Jamie’d figured it out himself, and there was really no better way to say it. Punditry was like playing football. Until it wasn’t. And that was just the way of it.  
  
And if punditry was like playing football until it wasn’t, managing was like playing football on drugs. Every slip of every player, every defensive error and off-target shot, every time a man squared up to another man and looked to fight, and did, or looked to fight, and didn’t, it was all made up to be the manager’s fault.  
  
Sometimes, Jamie _ached_ for Gary, for his friend (and god, _of course_ they had been friends, how could he not have realized that before?).  
  
After most losses, he remained silent. After a couple of weeks though, he started calling Spain. Every Friday. Whether it was match-day, the day before, or the day after, or whether it was just training, he called every Friday. There was no way Gary would be able to say that Jamie was just trying to make him feel better, because he _wasn’t_ (well, he was, but there was no proof, so… he wasn’t being obvious about it, at least).  
  
He made a silent promise to himself that these calls were for Gary, not him. Gary would vent and complain and even whine, sometimes, and Jamie would listen and empathize and offer constructive solutions. He would not talk about his own problems and add to Gary’s stress levels. He would not talk about Sky, and how Ed would ask about Gary sometimes, with a knowing look in his eye. He would not talk about how he would flounder in a most un-Jamie Carragher way whenever Ed _did._ He did talk a bit though, prattled on about unimportant things to take Gary’s mind off of his own life for a few minutes.  
  
Jamie learned a bit from these phone calls, as well.  
  
He learned about Alvaro Negredo—  
_he’s a godsend, a **miracle**_ , Gary’s tired voice would say, slightly distorted by static, _the only one of the boys who speaks any English. We’d be even more fucked if we didn’t have him._  
And Jamie would laugh away the jealousy in his stomach at hearing about Gary’s Spanish miracle.  
_Could you **be** more fucked, Gaz?_  
Gary would smile, and Jamie didn’t know when it was that he had learned the sound of a smile in Gary Neville’s voice.  
_Shut up, wanker_.

  
—and the rest of the boys—  
_I think they’re starting to get it, Jamie, I really do,_ in a rare moment of genuine optimism

  
—and even about Phil—  
_He brought his fucking frogs, Carragher, I swear, my brother is a fucking embarrassment._  
_Yeah, he is._  
_Hey, don’t you talk about my brother that way, he has more titles than you have brain cells!_  
_Gary, mate, **I** have more titles than **he** has brain cells._  
_…You’re not wrong._  
  
And always, they were talk until Jamie heard that smile in Gary’s voice, and then he’d let the conversation to wind down—  
_Well, I’ll let you go now, I’m sure the gaffer’s got loads to do, and I’m quite a busy man meself._  
_Yeah, what’ve you got to do? You’re probably sitting in your boxer shorts at home watching telly._  
_Wouldn’t you like to know,_ Jamie would say smugly, as he sat at home in his boxer shorts watching telly.

  
He’d hang up to the sound of Gary’s laughter, and it felt better than it should.

  
Okay, so maybe Jamie got a bit more out of these phone calls than he’d originally intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a pretty short one, but hold on, I think I'm going to post another! This just seemed like a more natural breaking off point.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valencia are going to play Barcelona. The Daily Mail send Jamie out to report on the match. Afterwards, he has a conversation with the wrong Neville, and then one with the right one.

Valencia was playing Barcelona, and now that Gary was gone, MNF wasn’t quite as, well, it wasn’t quite as _fun_ as it had been before. There was no match scheduled for that Monday evening anyway, so when Jamie asked if he could go to Spain and watch the match, he was promptly allowed to do so. He probably could have done without the odd look of pity he’d gotten from the producers, though. There was no need for that, after all.  
  
It was nice, actually. The weather was pleasant. He got to see Luis again, and Masch was there as well. They had a nice little stroll down memory lane, and Luis asked after Phil and Stevie and the boys, and Jamie remembered that everyone played favorites, even if they shouldn’t. He wondered who Gary’s favorites had been when he was captain.  
  
(He suspected the bitter little ginger, Gary’s precious Scholesy. He’d kissed him, after all. There must have been _some_ affection there).  
  
What about his favorites now, at Valencia?

( _He’s a **miracle** , Jamie, _Gary had said fervently as he spoke about Negredo. He swallowed hard and tried to stop thinking about it.)  
  
About two hours later, Jamie had changed his mind. It was very _not_  nice. He was happy for his old friends, and he’d always been a Barcelona fan, so he ought to have been happy with the result. He couldn’t help but wonder if it had been necessary to do it like that. Had that demolishing of  ~~Gary~~ Valencia really been necessary? Poor Gary.  
  
He found him afterwards, used his press badge to get near the press conference room where cold-hearted people would be asking Gary harsh, cruel questions that he’d have no answer to. There was nothing the press loved more than the mighty falling to their knees. He put his hand on the doorknob, but decided against opening it at the last minute. He was just deciding whether to head back to the hotel, spare Gary the forced banter and just let him lick his wounds in private, when the other Neville walked up to the door, peering in through the glass. Checking how the presser was going, maybe. Or checking how Gary was carrying on, stoic and tired.  
  
He turned to leave when he finally saw Jamie (though it was pretty hard to miss a tall, strong guy in a suit lingering awkwardly in a hallway).  
  
“Carragher?” He said, surprised.  
  
“Phil,” Jamie said levelly.  
  
“Oh, I, uh, didn’t know we were on a first name basis now,” Phil said awkwardly. ( _Perhaps it was a family trait_ , Jamie thought to himself, fondly remembering Gary stumbling over his words.  
  
“Well, I’m usually talking to Gary when I say Neville, so…” he offered with a little shrug.  
  
Phil smiled. It was a small one, but it made the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more visible.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry about today, how it happened,” Jamie said, quiet and sincere.  
  
Phil laughed lowly, with more than a hint of bitterness about it.  
  
“It was _Barcelona_ , Carragher. It was never gonna go well, on our current form. I’d just hoped it would be better than _that_.”  
  
Jamie clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically, and Phil looked up at him, and for a moment, he looked young and miserable. Jamie remembered the first time they’d played together for England, how _young_ the younger Neville had always seemed, trailing enthusiastically in his brother’s shadow.  
  
“How is he?” He asked Phil seriously, with a note of urgency in his voice that surprised even him.  
  
Phil sighed.  
  
“Not good,” he said, “Look, I know you just want to help, and I appreciate that, honestly, I do.”  
  
He looked at the ground.  
  
“God knows I can’t do this alone,” he muttered, raising his voice as he continued, “but maybe just give him one night? He needs a bit of time. Let him get himself together, and then you can come round and take him out tomorrow, okay?”  
  
Carra nodded. Nobody knew Gary like Phil did. He agreed to wait, didn’t protest even though he’d have to rent a car and find a hotel in Valencia and change his return flight, see if he could get one from Valencia instead of having to drive back to Barcelona.  
  
He just nodded at Phil and asked what time he should come by.  
  
He showed up at Valencia's training ground the next day, half an hour after the sun had thrown in the towel and set. The place was nearly empty, everyone gone. There was an elderly custodian vacuuming around the lobby, a single security guard sat behind the desk, engrossed in a book.  
  
He ran into Phil as he was heading out, coat folded over his arm. He looked even more tired, complexion sallow under the fluorescent lights.  
  
“Alright Phil?”  
  
“He’s in his office. Third floor, take a right, down the hall in the corner. It’ll be the only room with proper lights on.” Phil says, neatly sidestepping the question.  
  
Jamie’d been asked a few times now why he hasn’t gone into coaching. He’d never had a good answer, but at that moment, Phil Neville’s face was an answer in and of itself.  
  
“Wait,” he said, and Phil did. He looked like every second spent standing was taking up more of his energy, and he’d had little enough left as it is.  
  
“How was it today?” he asks, voice low and compassionate.  
  
Phil sagged, shoulders slumping downward. Until now, he’d been standing up straight, an old habit leftover from Sir Alex’s show-no-weakness philosophy— _you will stand straight, you will have pride in yourself and pride in your club, you will **not** slouch_.  
  
He sighed.  
  
“The boys aren’t happy. They’re upset with Gary, they’re upset with me—I’ve been here longer, I speak the language, more or less, and he’s _my_ brother, after all. My responsibility.” Phil sighs.  
  
“They’re upset with themselves. I think they learned more English today from Gary shouting at ‘em than they picked up in the last month.”  
  
“It’ll pick up,” Jamie says, trying for optimism, “long-term project and all that, eh?”  
  
Phil looks as though the thought alone is eating away at his soul.  
  
“Never mind. Go home, Phil. Have a drink, get to bed.”  
  
Phil nods, musters up a weak smile, and leaves.  
  
He takes a few steps, then twists back to look at Jamie.  
  
“Don’t let him drink too much, okay? He’s an emotional drunk, and if he’s hungover tomorrow, training is going to be a nightmare.” _And I don’t think I can deal with it_ , he didn’t add, but didn’t need to. Jamie saw it, written in the bags beneath his eyes, in the way he is suddenly aware that Phil may be the younger Neville, but he was still older than Jamie. He hurt for him, for the young blond boy who’d followed his big brother with a puppyish adoration in his eyes, for the man that boy had become.  
  
Jamie nodded, holding Phil’s eyes in a silent promise to take care of the man they both loved, albeit in very different ways.  
  
Jamie found the stairs around the corner from the elevator, climbed up the two stories, and opened the door to the third floor. He went down the hall, as Phil had told him to, only to find not a little square office as he’d half-expected, but a large conference room with glass walls. There were fourteen chairs, black leather, and just comfortable enough to get work done without making people sleepy.  
  
Only one of the fourteen was occupied, though the one next to it was half-turned, as though someone had just gotten up and left— _Phil’s seat,_ Jamie thought to himself.  
  
Gary was sitting facing the windows. Jamie considered just walking in, but had an awful vision of scaring Gary literally to death.  
  
So he knocked gently, knuckles tapping the glass door. He hadn’t quite counted on the way the glass would amplify the sound, or the way it would slice through the silence.  
  
Gary flinched violently.  
  
“Jesus _fuck_ , Phil, I _told_ you, I’m not _done_ yet, I have to do this, you can _go_ already—” he began furiously, turning his chair, “oh.”  
  
He looked weary and old, in the brief unguarded moment before surprise overtook his features.  
  
“Hullo, Gaz. I was in town, thought I’d drop by, let you buy me dinner.” Jamie stepped forward, into the room. Half the table was covered in paper, with two distinct handwritings. He recognized Gary’s instantly—the words tight and scrawly, the letters afraid of taking up space. He figured the other one was probably Phil’s, a little more comfortable, the letters a little more defined, the words not so codependent, each with enough breathing space.  
  
They made their e’s the same way.  
  
“Jamie.” The sound of his name snapped his attention, and he looked away from the papers to look at Gary.  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Carra.” He said, looking bewildered.  
  
“Neville.” Jamie responded, gentle in his mocking in a way he had never been before.  
  
There was a silence.  
  
He really had lost weight, Jamie noticed, with a frown. So it hadn’t just been the camera taking off ten pounds, as he’d joked to Gary on the phone. His face was drawn and tired. For a single, sudden instant, Jamie wanted to hide him away under his coat and whisk him away to somewhere nobody would know his name. He tamped down on that instinct, hard, bit at his lip, and smiled at him.  
  
“Were you there yesterday?” the words came out quiet, almost a whisper, painted with hope. Maybe, just _maybe,_ he hadn’t seen what a failure Gary was at this managing thing.  
  
Jamie couldn’t hold eye contact. He looked at the ground, and it was answer enough.  
  
“How awful was it?”  
  
Jamie stepped forward and sat in Phil’s recently-vacated chair. He put a hand on Gary’s shoulder and squeezed.  
  
Gary slumped in his chair.  
  
“Jamie Carragher speechless, well that’s a bloody first,” he muttered, laughing bitterly.  
  
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Jamie offered.  
  
“Can’t stop _thinking_ about it,” Gary responded shortly, “Keep thinking I’m going to wake up.”  
  
Jamie doesn’t know what to do. So he falls back to old patterns.  
  
“Buy me a drink?”  
  
Gary laughed, dry and humorless.  
  
“You were there for that fucking disaster, right? If anyone’s buying tonight, it’s sure as hell gonna be you, mate.”  
  
“Alright, alright, you cheap bastard, if you insist,” Jamie said, lips twisting into a little grin.  
  
_So much for distance changing things_ , Gary thought. His eyes drank Jamie in, every moment Jamie looked elsewhere, like a little boy parched after playing in the scorching summer sun, coming back inside to find fresh, cold lemonade in the fridge.  
  
Gary packed up his things, putting papers carefully into colored folders, sometimes pausing to add a couple of words to different pages, pulling pens out of his tracksuit pockets.  
  
“D’you need help?” Jamie asked, a strange urgency in his voice. Gary shook his head no, but Jamie came over anyway, gathering the last three files. He ignored Gary’s outstretched hand and placed them carefully in the open bag. They were in the wrong spot, but Gary didn’t say anything.  
  
When he’d finished packing up, the conference room was as stark and blank as it must have been when he’d arrived, the only sign of life two those chairs that were slightly rotated while their companions stared straight ahead. Jamie felt colder, somehow, and suddenly more eager to leave.  
  
Gary was pulling on his coat.  
  
“Come on,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the doorway, “let’s go.”  
  
“Lead on, Neville.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are drinks and banter, and Jamie has to get a drunken Gary back to his house. It's late, and he's tired, so he decides to stay over, just in case Gary needs anything.

They got to Gary’s car. Jamie waited for Gary to unlock it, and slid into the passenger seat. It was a different car than he’d had in London, he noted with a sneaking displeasure. The London car had been a classic navy blue, always impeccably shiny, but this one was a dusty black, as if it was trying its hardest to blend into the night’s darkness.  
  
They drove for awhile, until the stadium stopped dominating the skyline. Jamie didn’t comment on the fact that Gary seemed to know where he was going.  
  
He didn’t comment, even when Gary parked in front of a little dive bar on the corner of two small streets.  
  
He couldn’t hold back forever though, and when Gary reached over and opened the glove compartment, taking out a baseball cap and considering it, he had to say something.  
  
He took the cap out of Gary’s hands gently and put it back into the glove box.  
  
“You’re nothing to be ashamed of, Gary.”  
  
The words were still hanging in the air when he added something, a mischievous little twinkle entering his eyes.  
  
“Though you did play for the wrong club, so I s’pose there’s that.”  
  
Gary smiled a little and smacked his thigh. Any sting that might have been in the gesture was lost as he left his hand there for a moment, just above Jamie’s knee, before pulling back.  
  
“How many times d’you win the league, then, Carra?”  
  
Continuing on in that vein, they entered the pub. Luck was on their side in this at least, and as a giggling hand-holding couple made their way out, Jamie and Gary settled into the newly-vacated dimly lit corner booth.  
  
“I’ll get the drinks,” Carra said quickly, pressing a hand to Gary’s shoulder, and he was gone before Gary could say anything about the fact that Carra _didn’t speak Spanish_. That was assuming he could get the words out at all, of course. He was still contemplating the warmth of Jamie’s hand on his shoulder, and how wrong he had been with that distance nonsense.  
  
In this brief moment, with Jamie and yet not _with_ Jamie, he allowed himself to admit for the first time since he’d left England that he’d missed his stupid Scouser terribly over the past few months. If there was anything that could make today a little bit less shit, it was this. It was _him_.  
  
Jamie came back with a scotch in each hand.  
  
“You don’t like scotch,” Gary said, confused.

“ _You_ do,” Jamie said, shrugging.

  
Quite a few drinks later, Gary had loosened up, and the conversation had gone from stilted to free-flowing, much to Jamie’s relief (he’d been wondering if he’d lost his edge, not having anyone to spar with these past few months). Jamie was working his way through drinks slower, taking longer between sips from the glass. By the time Jamie’d finished his first, Gary was already on his third.  
  
“So,” Gary said playfully, “d’you miss me, then?”  
  
“Every day ‘cept Monday, Gaz.”  
  
“Oi, you twat. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”  
  
Jamie sat back, looked at Gary with a tenderness that he’d never seen before, brought out by nostalgia and that irrepressible joy of reunion.  
  
“You’re… on the list, at least.”  
  
Gary flushed and looked away, not having expected that response.  
  
“Come on, if you show up at practice tomorrow hungover, Phil’ll kill me. I promised him I’d look after you, you know. Even if I flee the country, I’ll wake up at three in the morning some day, and Rooney’ll be standing over my bed. You don’t want that, do you? Imagine the headlines—Liverpool Legend Killed to Execute Neville’s Vendetta. It’s not nice, now, is it?”  
  
“Phil won’t kill you, he’ll kill me.”  
  
Jamie laughed.  
  
“Phil won’t lay a hand on _you_ , he loves you too much. Whatever happens, it’ll be my fault for corrupting you.”  
  
“I wish you would,” Gary said drunkenly.  
  
“Would what?” Jamie asked absently.  
  
“ _Corrupt_ me,” Gary said, the innuendo heavy in his voice as he looked across the booth at Jamie.  
  
“You’re drunk,” Jamie said, suddenly very quiet and very sad.  
  
“A little,” Gary agreed.  
  
“A lot,” Jamie corrected, before standing and leaving the table.  
  
Gary watched through bleary eyes as he went up to the barman and settled their tab and came back. There was a grace to Jamie’s walk—a grace that came of knowing exactly how much space he occupied, and an exceptional comfort in the way his muscles flexed and relaxed as he stepped forward. He wove deftly through the people and the tables, long strides interrupted by quick, agile steps to get out of the way of a waitress carrying drinks, a brief pause as he graciously let an older woman go before him with a little bow—she looked at him with that fondness elder women often had for chivalrous young gentlemen.  
  
He leaned in close to talk to the girl behind the counter, reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet and hand her his card. She was in her early to mid-twenties, and her gaze lingered on Jamie, as though he were a mistake she was ready to make. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and smiled politely enough. Gary could see the way his lips curled around the word gracias. The barmaid replied, and Jamie chuckled a bit, shrugging his shoulders haplessly as if to say ‘hey, I’m trying, give me a little credit here.’  
  
“I’ve called us a cab, okay, Gary? All you need to do is remember your address. You do remember your address, right?”  
  
Gary nodded. Jamie helped him up.  
  
He turned around _for one second_ to grab his coat, and when he turned back, Gary had practically swan-dived towards the ground, and would have smashed his nose had Jamie not interceded.  
  
As it was, he was lucky Jamie’s reflexes were still good, and when he pulled him up sharply by the arm, Gary whined at the way he wrenched his shoulder.  
  
“It’s not fair that you’re still so strong. You should be less strong now. We’re old, for fuck’s sake. Be a good old person, Jamie,” Gary complained half-heartedly.  
  
“Come on, Gary, help me out a bit. I can’t carry you there.”  
  
“That’s a great idea! Carry me, Carra!” Gary chuckled to himself. “Carry-Carra, get it? Do you get it, Jamie?”  
  
“All I’m getting is one drunk whose ass I have to drag home. Phil’s going to kill me. I’m going to be dead. I never even got to say goodbye to Anfield,” Jamie said dramatically.  
  
“Don’t worry, Jamie, I’ll protect you,” Gary said seriously.  
  
“Oh good, then I’ll be perfectly safe,” Jamie said dryly.  
  
Jamie got Gary into the cab, and told him to push over before sliding in himself, only to find that the order hadn’t really sunk in all the way. Gary _had_ slid over, to be fair, but only just to the middle of the backseat, so they were pressed together, side by side, from knee to shoulder.  
  
“Budge up a bit, Gaz, come on, now,” Jamie asked and cajoled and pleaded in turn.  
  
“No,” Gary said softly and simply, “I like it like this.”  
  
Jamie looked down at the dark head leaning on his shoulder. There were more greys in amongst the dark brown than he’d remembered.  
  
_A gray hair is a trophy for each time someone bore the weight of the world and survived._  
  
His mother had said that to him once, when he’d been young and full of life, playing football because it was fun and the girls liked it. He’d looked up at her graying hair and wondered. It was one of those things that had stuck with him, for whatever reason, and he’d never forgotten.  
   
He’d looked in the mirror that morning and wondered. He looked down at Gary, who was sleeping now, like a child, and wondered again.  
  
“If you say so,” Jamie whispered.  
  
The roads in Valencia were bumpy. Terrible, really. So Jamie wrapped his arm around Gary’s neck, just to make sure he wasn’t too disturbed. He was sticking with that story. He was glad nobody knew about this, glad that nobody would ask him why he was in Valencia at an ungodly hour running his hand through Gary Neville’s hair. It was just Gary and Jamie and a Spanish cabbie who had learned the art of silence after years of nights like this. Jamie hoped he’d learned the art of discretion as well.  
  
When they got to Gary’s, Jamie shook Gary’s shoulder gently.  
  
“Come on lad, we’re here. Time to go to bed, Gary, come on now. Hopefully you’ll sleep off the hangover and I’ll survive to see another day…”  
  
Jamie shoved some money at the taxi driver, with a generous tip. The man let out a short, sincere _gracias_ , and pulled away from the curb as soon as Jamie managed to maneuver Gary out of the car, leaving Jamie to half-drag a man _in his forties_ to his front doorstep.  
  
He rummaged through Gary’s pockets for his keys, scrupulously keeping his eyes forward as if that would make things less awkward (it didn’t). He got them eventually, and opened the door.  
  
And this is where Jamie was faced with the choice between what was good and what was easy. The couch was right there, it’d be so simple to just drop him there, morning muscle-aches be damned.  
  
Then again, Jamie Carragher had never taken the easy way out in his entire life. He readjusted Gary’s arm around his shoulder and dragged him to his bedroom (after a brief detour to another bedroom… and a bathroom… and a very poorly placed closet—if Jamie ever met the architect of this house, they would be having _words_ ). He found Gary’s bedroom (the only room in the house that actually looked lived in, sadly enough).  
  
He dumped his semiconscious friend onto his bed, taking a moment to stand straight and stretch out his shoulders before leaning over to pull off Gary’s shoes and pull his legs up onto the bed. He ignored the way his back twinged from hunching over—he’d long since grown accustomed to his aging body’s limitations. He arranged him so he was sleeping on his side, and spotting a blanket folded across the foot of the bed, shook it out and covered him.  
  
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Gary sleeping. They’d played on the national team together, after all. He remembered the long plane rides to distant countries, and the even longer ones back home, weighted with disappointment. But this was perhaps the first time he’d actually _paid attention._ He looked younger, somehow, and that wrinkle between his eyebrows that seemed furrowed all the time was smooth, for once.  
  
He pulled away and went to go find the guest bedroom, because he was tired and drunk and he hadn’t thought to tell the taxi driver to wait, and he was _not_ going to go through another cab ride, and he wouldn’t be sleeping on a couch when there was a bed to be had, and he was a grown man who made his own decisions…  
  
And what if Gary needed something or got sick during the night? He’d have no one. Yes, it was best that Jamie stay the night. For both of them.  
  
He made it all the way to the doorway when Gary called out.  
  
“Jamie?”  
  
He turned back.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You’re going to stay?”  
  
“Yeah, Gaz, I’ll stay the night.”  
  
He turned to leave, when he was called back.  
  
“No, Jamie, _stay_.”  
  
“I _am_ , Gary, I’m staying.”  
  
“ _Stay_ ,” Gary said again, looking meaningfully down at the bed.  
  
“On the bed?”  
  
Gary nodded, shy in a way that Gary Neville had never been, not once, in the entire time Jamie had known him.  
  
Jamie couldn’t help it. He was tired and drunk and a little dizzy and pathetically human, and Gary was sad and fragile and alone, and he was _asking_ , and somehow, Jamie knew he’d never ask again.  
  
He crossed to the other side of the bed, slipped off his shoes, and laid himself on top of the blanket, before giving up and wriggling underneath.  
  
“Jamie?” Gary’s voice was clearer and quieter.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I’m shit at this managing lark,” Gary whispered, “can we just go home? I wanna go home, Jamie. Take me home. Please.”  
  
Jamie put a hand out, managing to find Gary’s arm. Gary wrapped a hand around his wrist and held on.  
  
“Let’s wait until tomorrow and then we can decide,” Jamie said, voice low and soft and indulgent, and it wrapped around Gary’s ears like a lullaby and a hug rolled into one, “and if you still wanna go home, I’ll pack you up and stick you in my suitcase. Sound good?” His voice was warm and affectionate, and Gary let himself dream, for once, of good things and safety and comfort.  
  
“Perfect,” Gary breathed, and he must have moved, because Jamie felt his breath on his chest through his shirt.  
  
Silence hung in the air for a long couple of seconds. Gary had probably fallen asleep already.  
  
“I’m sorry it’s been this way, Gary,” Jamie whispered to the dark, quiet room.

  
“Me too, Carra,” came the mumbled reply. He could feel Gary move even closer, until they were sharing the same space on the bed. He didn’t move away. He… he could give Gary this, at least.

  
“Go to sleep, Gaz,” he whispered.  
  
“Mkay. G’night, Jamie.”  
  
“Good night, Gary.”  
  
The last thing he remembered was turning his head towards the window, seeing fractured moonbeams dancing on the floor, filtering through the branches of the trees outside. He was aware of Gary’s presence—he’d never been more aware of anything in his life—but he was comfortable, and warm, and exhausted, and he slept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

Jamie woke to a phone call. The sun was streaming through the window, past the parted curtains, dancing on the floor. A half-formed image ran through his head, when it was cool moonlight instead of yellow sunshine. He didn’t hold onto the thought for more than a fraction of a second. His head was pounding, and his mouth was dry. The phone, _the phone_. Who on earth hated him _this_ much? What had he done to deserve this?  
  
He searched frantically for his phone, ignoring the groan from the person beside him. When he found it, he stared at it dumbly, looking at the dark screen.  
  
It kept going. The noise. Maybe God was punishing him.  
  
He shook his head gently, and in a moment of epiphany, he realized…  
  
That… wasn’t _his_  ringtone. It was some weird dance track, with a beat that seemed too energetic for the soulful words.  
  
And it clicked in a single, horrible second. He turned and looked down at the man beside him in bed. He was struck, for a moment, by the sight of Gary Neville sleeping, how young and sweet and _unburdened_ he seemed in that moment. At the same time, he was struck by the closeness of him. As if Gary had caught the direction of his thoughts, he shifted closer still, until Gary’s mouth was very near Jamie’s hand, planted just beneath the pillow. His breath caught for one heartbeat… two…  
  
Gary groaned as the phone rang again. He rolled over and threw an arm out to blindly find his phone. He found it and pulled it to his ear.  
  
“Wut,” he said flatly, voice low and crackly.  
  
“Phillll,” Gary whined, “no, head hurts. Tomorrow?” Then he seemed to wake up a bit more.  
  
“Wait. Wait, waitwaitwaitwait,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear and covering the mouthpiece.  
  
He lifted his head, turned to Jamie, and squinted at him, eyes shut against the blinding sun.  
  
Jamie sat very, very still, hoping against hope that Gary would somehow not see him.  
  
“Hi.” Gary said, offering Jamie a sleepy smile. The way his heart squeezed, Jamie suspected he might carry that smile with him for the rest of his life.  
  
Jamie cleared his throat, lifting a hand to run self-consciously through his hair.  
   
“Hiya, Gaz,” he returned, smiling slightly in response.  
   
Gary looked at him for a minute, then looked away and put the phone back to his ear.  
   
“Sorry, Phil. You were saying?”  
   
“Uhhh, I don’t actually know when I got home last night. Or how,” Gary admitted, glancing at Gary.  
   
“Taxi,” Jamie said quietly.  
   
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, Phil. Won’t happen again. No, I just remembered, we took a taxi.”  
   
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Carra stayed the night. Too tired to go back to the hotel, I think,” he said, and the way he wasn’t looking at Jamie spoke volumes.  
   
Jamie stared at the man sitting in bed beside him. He looked at his hair, and followed to his eyes, his nose, trailing down his neck. His shirt was wrinkled. Jamie’s fingers twitched, wanting to straighten the way his sleeve folded over itself.  
   
“Forty-five min—Phil, come on, be reasonable! Yes, that is enough time for a half a football match, but—Phil, I’m your brother, show a little mercy!”  
   
“Okay, what are we down to, then?”  
   
“If the boys get cranky today, I’m telling Negredo to blame you.”  
   
There was a burst of indignant noise from the other end of the line. Gary winced, moving the phone away from his ear.  
   
“Manager’s privilege, Philip.” Gary grinned.  
   
Phil was still talking when Gary let out a quick “ta” and hung up.  
  
“Breakfast?” He asked Jamie, who nodded.  
  
“Good, make me some as well,” Gary said teasingly, getting up and walking into the bathroom.  
  
Jamie opened his mouth to complain, then sighed. He hated to admit it, but it did make sense, actually. Gary actually had somewhere to be today, whereas Jamie’s flight wasn’t until the afternoon.  
  
“Eggs and toast?” he called out as he rose from the bed, taking in the way it looked, with the covers mussed and indentations in both pillows. It told a story, one he wanted to hear. But it wasn’t the truth.  
  
Gary came out of the bathroom, speaking around the toothbrush in his mouth.  
  
“Dunno what ’ve got in the fridge, just do your best, yeah?”  
  
Jamie sighed, and ambled down to the kitchen.  
  
First he spotted the aspirin bottle sitting on the countertop. It was half-empty. He wondered exactly how often Gary felt bad enough to warrant medication.  
  
He shook two pills out and filled a glass with tap water to swallow them.  
  
He took out two more pills and went back to Gary’s room.  
  
“These might help,” he announced, nudging Gary with his shoulder until he took the glass and pills from his hands. He swallowed them with a gulp of water.  
  
“You’re a god amongst men, James,” he said sweetly.  
  
“Can I have that in writing?” Jamie shot back easily, returning to the kitchen to forage for whatever food was to be had.  
  
Gary had migrated toward his closet, where he would presumably try to find just the perfect tracksuit for the day.  
  
The fridge was nearly empty. There were a few bananas that had seen better days, half a carton of eggs, an unopened bottle of milk, and half a loaf of bread.  
  
Jamie sighed and took out the eggs. He stuck a few pieces of bread in to toast, and made a nice scramble, rummaging in the cabinets until he found some spices.  
  
Gary arrived in the kitchen, still bleary-eyed and yawning. The smell of food seemed to help, though, as Gary perked up seeing the eggs.  
  
“I should keep you around,” he said approvingly, “‘s much better than the two toasts I normally have in the car on the way,” he said, through a mouthful of eggs.  
  
As he’d gotten past the joy of food and closer to the realization that he’d have to go back to work, Gary had gone quiet, and the glorious half-smile that had graced his face had slunk away.  
  
Jamie suddenly flashed back to the last conversation they’d had before they’d fallen asleep. He remembered Gary, remembered the vulnerability in his voice. He remembered the feeling of Gary’s arm beneath his hand, the feeling of Gary’s fingers round his wrist. He wondered if Gary remembered asking to go home. He wondered if Gary had remembered the rash promise he’d made—to pack him up into his suitcase and bring him home, if he wanted that. _If **he** wants that_ , he reminded himself fiercely, _not if **I** want that_.  
  
He swallowed hard, and suddenly the toast and eggs seemed to taste of cardboard. He pushed his plate away, ignoring the way Gary’s eyebrow rose questioningly.  
  
“Carra?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing, Gaz, still hungover, is all. Don’t want to push it too much with the food.”  
  
Gary looked skeptical.  
  
Gary looked at him one last time, still unconvinced, then put his plate in the sink and went to go organize his papers—notes scrawled across napkins and sticky notes were all well and good until you needed to find them again.  
  
Jamie did the washing up, not bothering to grumble, though if Gary’d been around to see, he would have tried, then went up to the guest bathroom.  
  
He found some towels in the closet he’d stumbled across last night, and took a quick shower, ignoring the generic flowery smell of the shampoo.  
  
He wrapped a towel around his hips, then looked down at the clothes he’d been wearing before. They’d been nice enough, a decent collared shirt and some navy blue trousers, but they were wrinkled now, and not exactly fresh.  
He could wear them back to the hotel, but if there were any paparazzi around, well, they probably wouldn’t have anything _good_ to say.  
  
He swore under his breath and went to find Gary, who was already dressed and standing in the kitchen. He’d been innocently drinking some coffee, until he saw Jamie standing in his house in a towel, at which point he promptly choked, burned his tongue and prepared, yet again, to meet his Maker.  
  
“ _Fucking hell_ , Carragher, put some clothes on.”  
  
“I have every intention of getting dressed! _Jesus_.”  
  
“’Gary’ is quite alright, I think,” he quipped. Jamie ignored him.  
  
“I’m not trying to steal one of your towels, Gary, for fuck’s sake. I just need an iron. And maybe some cologne? These aren’t the freshest,” he said, shaking the bundle of clothes slightly, “and as you've so cleverly pointed out, I can’t exactly go back to the hotel in this,” he continued, gesturing at the towel.  
  
But Gary wasn’t listening anymore. He was staring at Jamie’s stomach, at the mess of scar tissue that went from where his belly button would be downwards.  
  
He stepped forward, eyes still glued to Jamie’s stomach. Jamie shifted in discomfort, wondering if he had put on some weight after all, despite all the training he’d done after retiring.  
  
“I always forget about that,” Gary said, voice hushed, “I always forget that you were a miracle, even before you kicked a ball.”  
  
Jamie liked the sound of the words in Gary’s mouth, liked the breathy reverence with which he’d called Jamie a miracle. There was even a compliment in there about the type of player he’d been, and he might’ve teased Gary about it, if things had been different.  
  
His mouth was dry. He swallowed before speaking.  
  
“I had good doctors,” he said matter-of-factly, “and me ma was a good Catholic.” He’d seen pictures of babies born like he had been, and he’d read the statistics. He’d been fortunate.  
  
Gary put a hand out, reaching out, as if to touch… Jamie tensed, but didn’t move.  
  
There was a knock on the door, and it snapped the moment, and whatever might have happened wouldn’t now.  
  
“Iron, Neville,” Jamie said sternly.  
  
“Laundry room’s down the hall,” Gary said. His eyes were still a little dazed, though he managed to rip his gaze from Jamie’s stomach back up to his face.  
  
“’M not a piece of meat, you know,” Jamie said, grinning as he headed off towards the laundry room.  
  
“Wait!” Gary called, and so Jamie did, “When are you going back?”  
  
“This afternoon,” Jamie said regretfully. He hesitated a moment before he added “probably leaving soon as I get back to the hotel. I’ve got to drive back to Barcelona,” he said sheepishly, revealing more than he intended, perhaps. There hadn’t been any seats for a flight from Valencia, but somehow that hadn’t even factored into his decision to stay.  
  
Gary looked at the door, but strode over to Jamie instead.  
  
“Thank you for coming,” he said, “It was good to see you.” He was so sincere Jamie hurt for him.  
  
_Come back,_ he almost said, but didn’t. _Come home_.  
  
“I watch your matches, you know,” he said conversationally, “Call me if I can help with anything, yeah? Or if you just want to talk at someone other than Phil.”  
  
Gary nodded.  
  
“Call you on Friday?”  
  
Gary nodded again, smiling this time.  
  
Jamie stepped forward, narrowing the gap between them, and wrapped a loose arm around Gary’s neck, pulling him in close.  
  
Gary didn’t think. He couldn’t. Not right now. His hands came up and wrapped around Jamie’s back, and closed the gap even more, until he could feel droplets of water from Jamie’s chest soaking through his shirt.  
  
“’M still wet,” Jamie protested, laughing as he pulled away.  
  
“’S’okay,” Gary replied with a lopsided grin.  
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
“GARY?” Phil called through the door.  
  
They pulled apart, Jamie laughing again as he made his way to the laundry room. Gary squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fix the memory into his brain, tried to remember the way Jamie had looked, his damp hair, the weight of his arm around Gary’s neck, the feel of Jamie’s back beneath his hands, the sound of Jamie’s laugh, the look of Jamie’s smile. He wondered how it would taste.  
  
He pictured Jamie one last time, and opened his eyes, and walked over to the door, yanking it open.  
  
“No need to shout, Phil,” he admonished lightly.  
  
“See you later, Carragher,” he shouted back into the house.  
  
“Ta, Gaz!” Jamie called back.  
  
Gary was acutely aware of Phil watching him, so he tried not to flush and walked quickly to the car.  
  
“D’you two have fun last night?” Phil asked casually as he crossed to the driver’s side of the car.  
  
“Could’ve been worse,” Gary said, almost _too_ nonchalant, “then again, I guess it could’ve been better, different circumstances and all that.”  
  
Phil had known Gary his entire life, and very, _very_ early on, he’d learned when to drop it and when to pursue more information.  
  
He dropped it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before Jamie was born, the doctors told his mother he would have spina bifida, which is a condition that results in incomplete closing of the membranes or vertebrae around the spinal cord. It ranges in severity, but Jamie was predicted to have the most severe kind, in which the spinal cord is actually exposed. The doctors advised Jamie's mom to have an abortion, but she refused due to her Catholic faith. 
> 
> When Jamie was born, it was found that Jamie did not in fact have spina bifida at all. Instead he had omphalocele, also known as exomphalos, which is a condition in which his abdominal organs were not inside of him, but were in a sac that was in fact outside of the abdominal cavity. The doctors operated, and put the organs inside of him. As a result, Jamie has no belly button, instead having several long scars along his abdomen. If you look for pictures of him shirtless, you can see the extent of the scarring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on.

He was back in London, doing MNF with various guest pundits. Graeme Souness was in one week, Cesc Fabregas the next. Life moved on.  
   
Things for Gary were only getting bleaker. Valencia had gone from being a top four side to the bottom half of the table. The fans were rebelling, chants of “Go home, Gary!” at every match, tearing at Jamie’s heart through the television screen.  
   
_You have him,_ some part of him wanted to scream. _You have him, and you don’t want him, and I want him more than anything, and I don’t_ get _to have him! Why can’t you see how lucky you are?_  
  
And even during international break, Gary was busy, coaching with England. Jamie felt a little better about it, though. Rooney would be there, after all, and Hodgson had always been a staunch support to his right-hand man. At least they would treat him as he ought to have been treated by Valencia.  
   
It was on one such international break that the news broke.  
   
Jamie knew before. Actually, besides Phil, he might have been the first to know.  
   
It was a Friday, and Gary had called him. That should have made him happy—he liked talking to Gary, after all—but he’d been edgy.

(Jamie was the one who called. Always. He’d felt a bit insecure about it, had wondered if he was being too clingy. And then he didn’t call one Friday, and he’d gotten a text. _Not dead, are you? Call me, you idiot_.  
   
And then another one. _I really do hope you’re not dead, or this won’t look very good for me._  
   
Jamie called.  
   
“I think that might have been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says in lieu of hello.  
   
“Oh, so you’re not dead, then,” Gary says dryly. “You just forgot about me. That’s nice.”  
   
“Didn’t forget you, Gaz, I just thought you might be busy, didn’t want to be a bother.”  
   
“You’re always a bother,” Gary says, “but you’re less annoying than most other things at the minute,” he finishes awkwardly.  
   
_I like talking to you_ , Jamie translates mentally.)

But this time, Gary had called, and there had been something off about his voice, though Jamie couldn't tell what exactly it was. Something about the way his voice pulled down at the ends of words and sentences, as if he was too tired to project positivity he'd never really felt. Or something like that.  
   
Finally, after a few minutes of painfully polite small talk, Jamie heard Gary heave a noisy sigh.  
   
“Everything okay, mate?”  
   
“They’ve sacked me,” Gary had said, quiet and slow. Jamie wondered how many times before he’d had to say the words. Sorrow and a guilty, selfish joy churned together in his stomach.  
   
For a split second, he wondered if Gary would come back to Sky.  
   
“Are… are you coming home?” He asked instead, and _oh_ , how telling a question it was! as though he had stripped off every layer to lay himself bare before Gary like this.  
   
“Dunno,” Gary said, “I’ll be with England, I guess. If the Euros go well, then maybe…”  
   
“They’ll go well, Gaz,” Jamie said confidently, “the boys have been dominating the qualifiers, people are finally starting to think the team isn’t complete shite… It’ll go well.” _It has to_ , he didn’t say, but didn’t have to. Gary could hear the words in the brief silence.  
   
“Hey, I’m playing that charity match with Phil in a couple of weeks,” he said casually, to change the subject.  
   
“I wish I could be there, just to see you get stick from United supporters one more time,” Gary said, voice lightening up.  
   
“’M sure Phil’ll let you know exactly how much Old Trafford loves me and Robbie.”  
   
“Robbie Fowler? Can he even run across the pitch anymore?”  
   
“He’ll be better than the four different pop stars in the side, I reckon, if a bit slower,” Jamie said, laughing generously.  
   
“You going to watch?” Jamie asked hopefully.  
   
“’Course,” Gary said, “wouldn’t miss an opportunity to watch a bunch of old men running ‘round the pitch making fools of themselves.”  
   
“To be fair, there are some kids too. Those OneDirection boys weren’t even born in ’92.”  
   
“Yeah? Then I’ll enjoy watching them run circles around you, I s’pose. You and Phil in the same side, though, that’ll be fun.”  
   
“I’ve always said Phil is my favorite Neville. It’ll be a welcome change after hanging about with you for so long!”  
   
Gary laughed. He knew Jamie was only teasing. But the idea nagged at him a bit. He brushed it aside.  
   
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he said, soft. At some point these phone calls had changed, from ending in a quick goodbye, or a casual ta, to something else, to “I’ll talk to you later,” or “I’ll call you soon,” or “We’ll talk next Friday?” and always, always Gary would wait for Jamie to confirm before he hung up the phone.  
   
“Gary,” Jamie said, his voice completely serious. He could imagine him, the lines round his mouth deepening. He wished he could be beside him again.  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“I’m sorry, about the way it ended. They weren’t fair to you.”  
   
“I failed them,” Gary said plainly.  
   
“What did they expect? They should’ve given you more time, a preseason to get your players in and ready, time to learn the language and learn about the players!”  
   
“Maybe,” Gary said softly. “Part of me is glad it’s over, though. I’ve missed home.” There was a peculiar inflection in that last word, as if home wasn’t just home, as if it wasn’t just dreary skies and drizzling rain and red buses and the Tube. As if there was more that he missed than that.  
   
Jamie hoped. He tried not to, but oh, how he _hoped_.  
   
The charity match was good. It was good to play again. Phil was there, and the two were fairly cordial. They hadn’t had much in common before, but they had one rather large thing between them now. It was odd, the bond that arose from the shared burden of the care and maintenance of one Gary Neville.  
   
Gary calls him afterwards. “Still an idiot, I see?” he says.  
   
“I was brilliant today, Gaz. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
   
“It’s a charity match, Carra. You looked a right twat sliding in on Ronaldinho like that.”  
   
“It was a fair challenge!”  
   
“Might’ve been, if you’d been fast enough to time it properly.”  
   
“Oi, I don’t think you should be lecturing anybody about footspeed, Gaz!”  
   
They laugh.  
   
“How’s France?”  
   
“Beautiful. French. They don’t give a shit about us, it’s brilliant.”  
   
“Good. Good luck out there. Call Phil—he misses you.”  
   
“Eh, just give him the phone, James.”  
   
It’s awkward, looking at Phil and looking back at the phone. He walks up to the younger, blonder Neville.  
   
“It’s Gaz,” he says, “he wants a word with his baby brother.”  
   
“I’m older’n you, Carra.” Phil reminds him.  
   
“Doesn’t mean you’re not his baby brother, though, does it?”  
   
Phil grins at him and takes the phone. He covers the mouthpiece.

"Did he call, or did you?" he asks, curious.

"It was him," Jamie mutters quickly, going a bit red. Phil grins. 

"Loves you more than his own brother, does he? And me there with him in the trenches in Spain, too!" He smiles through the words, like he and Jamie are in on the same joke, somehow. Jamie smiles back. Phil pulls the phone back to his ear.   
    
“Hullo, Gary. Finally remembered you’re not an only child, have you?”

 

\---

  
   
The Euros started. England underperformed in the matches against Russia and Slovakia. But the match against Wales…it was exquisite. He watched Gary sprint down the touchline and throw his arms around Daniel Sturridge.  
   
If there was anyone Jamie knew who so richly deserved this joy, it was Gary. He couldn’t stop smiling.  
   
He sent Gary a four-word text. _I told you so! :)_  
   
Gary must have been in a good mood. He sent back a kissy face. Jamie stared at it for a long, long moment, and smiled.  
   
_I should have known better._ That’s what Jamie thought after Iceland.  
   
_I should have known better_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things, too, come to an end.

Two days later, there was a knock at Jamie’s door.

 

Gary Neville was standing in the rain, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He was holding a single bottle of scotch, fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of the bottle.

 

Jamie opened the door and stepped back.

 

“Anything but football,” Gary said wearily, “talk to me about anything, _anything_ but football.”

 

He passed close by Jamie as he entered the flat, and began stripping off his damp coat, and pulling off his baseball cap—it was a Dodgers cap, Jamie noted. Ironic, he thought to himself, for the man who would assume responsibility for everything, would take it all onto his own shoulders, even if it wasn’t his fault. The fucking Dodgers, for a man who had never dodged responsibility in his life.

 

“Cuppa tea?” he asked, feeling useless.

 

Gary held out the bottle of scotch.

 

“You can get me a glass, or I’ll drink it straight from the bottle,” he said.

 

Jamie reached out and pulled the bottle from his grasp, going off to fetch some glasses.

 

Gary followed him into his small kitchen, and they maneuvered around each other in the limited space. It was nowhere as awkward as it should have been. Jamie’d retrieved the glasses already when he reached past Gary for a cabinet. Gary stood firm, lifting his chin and arching an eyebrow in challenge. Jamie seemed to be waiting for him to move, until it became evident he wouldn’t, at least not of his own volition. Finally, he just reached forward, grabbed Gary by the shoulders, and shifted him to the side, and Gary let him.

 

Jamie pulled out a half-empty bag of Starbursts and handed it to Gary. He waited for Gary to leave the kitchen and lead the way back to the living room. It was so familiar it made something in Gary’s chest ache and pull. The same sofa, the same bookshelf lined with the same books, the same damn curtains they’d once spent five minutes debating the color of… And there was Jamie in the middle of it all, as warm and solid and _there_ as he had ever been.

 

He stood and walked over to the bookshelf. He saw Stevie’s autobiography, with the wrinkled corner. He pressed against it with his nail, straightening it out.

 

He’d never have with Jamie what Jamie had with Stevie. That much was still true. There was too much history there. But Stevie would never have with Jamie what Jamie had with Gary, either. Jamie never flew to LA to be with Stevie after a loss. He’d never crawled into bed with _Stevie_ after a few drinks. He’d never spent hours with _Stevie_ in the studio, working and analyzing and flirting through football. That had all been Gary.

 

Jamie was watching him with careful eyes, as though afraid he would suddenly have a fit of rage and destroy the place. Gary looked back at him. As he watched, Jamie lowered himself onto the couch slowly. Gary wondered how his knees were doing these days. He walked over to him and sat beside him. Their thighs were touching, just barely. He waited, but Jamie didn’t say anything. And then Gary let himself sink slowly to the side, let Jamie ease his weight from him. Something in Jamie softened and strengthened at the same time. He wrapped an arm around Gary, pulled him in close.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

“It’s been a shit couple of months,” Gary responded.

 

“For me, too.” _Come back to the studio. Come back to the studio with me. I’ll protect you._ The words were in Jamie’s throat, not quite at the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, warm and sharp like the scotch Gary’d brought them because he thought Jamie liked it when the thing Jamie liked wasn’t the scotch so much as it was the soft hum Gary let out at the first sip, utterly satisfied.

“I’m glad you’re back, though. I missed you.”

 

“Yeah?” Gary mumbled to the button of Jamie’s shirt.

 

“Yeah, Gaz,” Jamie said, running a hand through Gary’s hair, soft and affectionate in a way that usually only came when he’d had more than a couple of sips of scotch.

 

“D’you think I could come back to the studio?” Gary asked, looking at that same button.

 

“I would like that,” Jamie said. It felt too honest, but he said it anyway, “I think they’d take you back in a heartbeat if you wanted to come back.”

 

“I dunno if it’s about want to, anymore,” Gary admitted. “I’m good at it, I’m unemployed, they’ll hire me, so that’s that.”

 

“Gary, you are a retired professional footballer. You’ve got businesses that you earn a tidy profit off of. You’re not fresh out of a factory job with a family to feed, you know. You can take a bit of a break if you want to. Go see the world. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

 

“I think I’ve seen enough of the world,” Gary said. “I just want to be warm and cozy and drink your shit tea and watch rain from inside and not have anyone look at me.”

 

Jamie turned his head away.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

“Not allowed to look at you anymore, am I?”

 

“No, _you_ are,” Gary smiled into Jamie’s shoulder. “ _You_ are still allowed to look at me.”

 

“Well, okay then.”

 

They worked their way through the scotch slowly. Jamie was somewhat surprised at it, had thought Gary would have chugged half the bottle in five minutes, but he didn’t want to drink the pain away, it seemed.

 

“D’you wanna watch a ma—a film?” Jamie asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Telly?”

 

“No.”

 

“What d’you wanna do, then?”

 

“Just sit here and talk to you.”

 

“Okay, Gaz, if that’s what you want.”

 

Gary finished his glass, took Jamie’s glass and swallowed whatever was left in it, and put both of them on the table.

 

Jamie raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“There’re better ways of getting drunk, you know, I have plenty of beer, maybe some cheap vodka—“

 

Gary leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Jamie’s neck. Jamie turned to look at him, and Gary leaned forward and kissed him, warm and dry and sharp, like the scotch and Gary’s tongue when they were on MNF.

 

Only no, Gary’s tongue wasn’t sharp at all, and Jamie would know, because it was in his mouth now. _Is this really happening?_   he asked himself, or was this just that dream Jamie started having after Gary left, when Gary showed up at his door and announced that he was choosing Jamie, choosing Jamie over Spain, over Valencia, over football, even, though Jamie would never ask that of him.

 

Jamie pulled away. “Gary, are you—“

 

“Not this time, Carra,” Gary said, and his voice was all breathy madness, making Jamie’s spine tingle in a pleasant way and his stomach flop about like a teenager.

 

“Okay,” Jamie whispered, and pulled him back in.

 

They sat like that for a long time, until Jamie made a noise of discomfort and pulled away, stretching his neck. Gary grinned at him wolfishly, all teeth. There was something wicked in it, but Jamie finds he rather liked it. There was something wicked in him, too, after all. Gary climbed onto Jamie’s lap and pushed him back against the soft leather sofa.

 

“Better?” he asked lightly, pressing his mouth to Jamie’s neck.

 

“Much better,” Jamie gasped, “much, much better.”

 

They kept kissing. Every now and then, one of them would pull away, spill a truth they were tired of keeping to themselves.

“I missed you, Gary. So much. Watched all— _oh_ —all your matches. Just to see you.”

“Missed you, too. Hearing your voice on the phone, Carra, it was the highlight of my week sometimes. Used to watch MNF over dinner.”

“That night, in Spain, when we slept tog—in the same bed. That night, I told you I would pack you away in my suitcase and bring you home with me if you wanted to go. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to go?”

Gary kissed him again. “Yes,” he whispered. And he kissed him again. “Yes.” And again. “Yes.”

There was silence for a few moments, and stillness. Gary’s face was soft as he just looked at Jamie and let himself be looked at. It was almost more intimate than the kissing, somehow. He glanced at Carra’s lips again, leaned in again.

“You, standing in my kitchen in a towel, Carra, Jesus, what you do to a man—“

“I’m not having that! You told me you wanted me to _corrupt_ you!”

“Firstly, I was drunk when I said that. You were completely sober when you were naked in my kitchen!”

“I wasn’t naked! I was in a towel! And you’re the one who was staring at my stomach and calling me a miracle! You really know how to woo a lad, Gaz. _Miracle_ , honestly.”

“You did that hair thing in the cab!”

“I thought you were sleeping!”

“Oh, and that makes it all right?”

“You weren’t exactly complaining!”

They realized at almost exactly the same moment that they’d fallen into old patterns, and Gary let his head fall forward, forehead against Jamie’s shoulder as they laughed.

“Missed you,” Gary said, kissing Jamie’s cheek gently.

“Missed you too, Gaz,” Jamie replied, pecking him on the mouth.

“Let’s go to sleep, Jamie,” Gary said.

“Go to sleep, or go to bed?”

“Go to sleep. The last good night’s sleep I got, well, it’s the last one I had with you.” Jamie took a minute to really, properly look at Gary. He looked tired, but not quite as sad.

  
“Okay,” Jamie agreed softly. He grinned a second later. “Okay, let’s go to sleep. You’ll need to be well-rested anyway, given what I’ve got planned for you.”

“You filthy Scouser.”

“You love me,” Jamie said cheekily.

“I—I think I might do, actually.”

Jamie’s jaw dropped.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, James. Realized it somewhere around the third phone call, when you were telling me about West Ham’s defense, and I just wanted to see your face. And you didn’t help, either, showing up like you did, like a knight in shining armor.”

“Yeah, well, you were in distress.” Jamie’d always been uncomfortable with praise, and this is no different. Gary watched his face, cheeks flushing a little redder.

“I…I do too. Love you, I mean. I love you too, Gary. When I saw you… alone in that conference room, I dunno, Gaz, I just wanted to help you fight your way back up. Wanted to protect you from the press, from the fans, all of it. Just wanted you to be happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Gaz, you mad Manc.”

“Let’s go to bed, Jamie.”

“Go to sleep or go to bed?”

“I meant what I said, Jamie.”

Jamie laughed richly and kissed him, and it was already normal, like they’d been doing this for months, like the fear was all gone and all that was left was the excitement and the joy and the comfort and the softness. Something in Gary’s stomach bubbled up and settles down. Jamie pulled him out of the room, and he was just so glad to be home again.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is done, or at least a version of it is done. I do want to edit it though, so I may change little things here and there, even on chapters I've already posted. As of now, I don't know how many chapters this will have. I'm hoping to have it all up in the next couple of days, maybe a week, tops.


End file.
